


The Great Artiste

by ellymango



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, Mystery, Shooting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-06
Updated: 2013-11-24
Packaged: 2017-12-31 17:04:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1034161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellymango/pseuds/ellymango
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Twenty-one NATO member states are shot dead when they come under sniper fire during a meeting at the headquarters in Brussels. In the midst of the investigation, the seven survivors find themselves race against time to figure out who attacked them, how they did it and why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

_Chapter One_

_From the outset it seemed like any other day. It would be just another boring and generic meeting, only enlivened when someone, usually Arthur, took the opportunity to make some skiving comment at someone else’s expense, and afterwards everyone would disperse back to their hotels. But fate never works in an even pattern._

Alfred always turned up first to meetings. Or rather, he always wanted to have first choice at the hotel buffet table in the mornings, therefore got up and ready before any of his fellow nations did. Being early also had the advantage of being the first to use the coffee machine in the conference hall lobby.

Whilst waiting, he enjoyed guessing the order in which the other NATO members would show up. Ludwig would normally enter soon after him, more often than not dragging a whining Feliciano in his wake. After them usually came Matthias, Lukas and Emil, with Arthur coming in just after. From then on, everyone just came in steadily, and on average it was either Francis or Irakles who showed up last. The Frenchman had a habit of preening himself to perfection in the morning, though would swan in gracefully looking the least bedraggled out of everyone, and the Greek had the uncanny ability to be absent one minute, then materialise in his chair the next.

Not that Alfred cared. As long as he had a full audience, he was happy.

The conference hall was deceptively large and airy when empty. However, when full of people, it was stuffy, crowded and most likely smelt of coffee. It was an atmosphere one could quite easily fall asleep in, a factor frequently demonstrated by a certain cat-loving Greek. Then again, he had proven himself to be able to fall asleep anywhere he liked.  


The American strode into the room, nodding cheerfully at the cleaner, who was leaving, and took his place at the head of the oval-shaped table. Yet another perk of arriving early was that you always had enough space to reach your chair without having to jostle behind other representatives through the hall, which was especially vexing and slightly embarrassing when you sat pride of place at the end of the table furthest from the door.

He sat down, taking out his iPhone and opening up _Cut the Rope._ For some reason, he found the concept of cutting virtual pieces of string to feed an obese green blob highly entertaining, and as a result, he had been caught playing it during parts of other meetings, mainly during periods when he wasn’t talking.

His game had barely loaded when the door opened and, as he predicted, Ludwig entered. Moments later, Feliciano practically crawled in, complaining loudly in Italian about not being allowed coffee since one time he fell asleep and spilt a cup all over his lap.

Alfred looked up slightly from his phone and straightened himself to look more formal. “Good morning,” he offered cheerfully, resisting the urge to wave.

 _“Guten morgen,”_ Ludwig replied gruffly, casting a glare at his Italian counterpart, who was slumped on the table, drooling and making soft whistling sounds.

The smaller man made a stifled high-pitched grunt and lifted his head abruptly, and opened his mouth to say something, but was cut off suddenly by the bang of the door being practically kicked open. Matthias bounded in, bellowing a greeting, flanked by his stony faced brothers and a characteristically disgruntled Arthur. They all nodded curtly to the occupants and took their seats without a word.

He looked back down at his phone, only to realise that the battery was dead. The most annoying part of owning an iPhone was that no matter how long you charged it, it would always run out of battery life the moment you wanted to use it.

 _Damn,_ he thought, half-angrily, half-miserably. With no technology to keep him amused, he could only do one thing if he wanted to avoid looking like he had nothing better to do; he would have to interact with countries he’d never heard of until they joined NATO.

He looked around the room, searching for someone he knew and was remotely interesting to talk to, or at least, someone who had the patience to listen to him. _Nobody._ Ludwig was far too serious for Alfred’s liking. Feliciano was asleep again. Arthur was in one of his moods, and this seemed to have rubbed off on Lukas, then again, he wasn’t sure if the Norwegian was genuinely in a temper or if he was always like that. Matthias and Alfred’s personalities were too alike for them to get along. As for Emil… well, the only thing Alfred knew about Iceland was that it was an island. And that it wasn’t made of ice. Besides, the teenager looked so miserable that Alfred didn’t really want to go near him anyway.

Then again, he knew that even if the room was full he probably wouldn’t bother to talk to someone. The Baltic States were too nervy and awkward, he could never tell one Balkan from the other, he still got the Belgian and Dutch avatars confused, and Matthew was so damn quiet nobody would notice if he was even in the room or not. As for everyone else, well, they were all just weirdoes. 

He turned his attention back to Emil, who was glaring daggers at the dribbling Italian beside him. _I’m supposed to be a good guy, right? Part of the hero’s job is to cheer up depressed people, right? Or at least be nice to them anyway._

He stood up heavily, ambling over to the silvery-haired teen, who immediately shot round to face the approaching American. His strange pink eyes caught Alfred off guard, as they usually did. They were just so… pink… and striking. Rimmed by long, thick black eyelashes, and not to mention the fiery, rosy colour, they never ceased to make the American jump each time he saw them.

He flopped down in the chair usually reserved for Elizabeta, all the while being given a glare most people usually reserve for foully behaved toddlers in public places by Emil.

 _Jesus, talk about frosty..._ “Morning,” he beamed, in a rather generic fashion, smiling in his usual friendly way. Well, he could at least _attempt_ to be nice.

Emil continued to stare at him, studying the happy-go-lucky American intently with his unusual eyes. There was a long pause before he finally spoke.

“Good morning,” he replied, blandly. There was a second pause, before he added with a heavy air of suspicion, “What is it?” 

Alfred was slightly taken aback. Yes, it was true that he rarely spoke to the Icelander, but, man he’d barely said two sentences and already Alfred was convinced that Emil was some kind of European emo-kid. “What do you mean?” His voice sounded embarrassingly high, and it was obvious he had taken slight offence at the teenager’s sharp reply.

“You only talk to people when you want something. What is it?” He was bearing into Alfred with his weird eyes again, and the American could have sworn Emil was wearing mascara. That would at least explain his long eyelashes, anyway. And why they were black and not silver, like his hair.

“Well, I…” he didn’t really have anything to say. “I just, y’know, wanted to talk to someone…” He then realised that he couldn’t think of anything that he and Emil possibly both enjoyed. _Way to go America, you just had to go and pick the country you have the least in common with._

Emil stayed quiet, suspiciously studying Alfred’s every move. “And why did you pick me?” His tone sounded less patronising this time.

Again, the American had nothing to say. “Uh, you seemed like the… best person?” He flailed an arm in the direction of the older Europeans, who had crowded around in a circle, no doubt discussing something that Alfred couldn’t be bothered with. “They all seemed to be a bit pissy this morning. Well, except for… he’s Denmark, right?” He pointed his thumb at Matthias, who was reclining against the wall, coffee in hand. One thing he hated about himself was that he only remembered first names of nations he saw regularly. And, though he would never admit it, he also got confused between the Danish and Dutch personifications. Well, they were both really tall and had light-coloured hair that stuck up, and the only difference he noticed is that one was more cheerful than the other.

Emil nodded nonchalantly. “Yes, he is.” He paused, turning his head so he could watch the older nations from across the table. “They never talk about things I could make an input on. Besides, it’s not like they expect me to get involved, and I probably wouldn’t want to anyway.”

 _Well, at least that’s one thing we can agree on._ Alfred had never been a massive fan of the complicated mess that was European politics. Besides, the European avatars were difficult to work with, mainly because they only sought to benefit themselves and the main reason for their co-operation with the US was because they were all terrified of him. 

A thought flashed into the American’s head. “Do they even, y’know, talk to you that much? I mean, you never really seem to try and…” he flailed his arms when he couldn’t think of a word, “I dunno, interact with them? You always just… sit there.” _Looking miserable and depressed,_ he continued inside his mind.

The Icelander continued to gaze across the table. “Of course they talk to me. They just talk to me too much.” He sighed dramatically, adding, “Sometimes you need to get away from them all.” Alfred could tell by his tone that Emil meant all the other Nordic nations and not just the two present in the room. _Who can blame him? They’re all freakin’ weirdoes!_ From his brief encounters with the other Northern Europeans (in all of which, he had gotten their country names confused) he had learnt that one of them was an alcoholic, another had less emotion than a dead fish, one was about seven feet tall and had a glare that made people wet themselves with fear, and the last looked like a blond Justin Bieber and had a pet poodle with a stupid name.

 _Talk too much…? Whatever._ “They weird me out a bit. Y’know, the rest of your… I dunno, family? Would you call them that?” _Man that sounded awkward…_

“It depends on what my mood is.”

 _God this kid is a drag…_ “Do they annoy you, then? But isn’t that, like, y’know, normal? I mean, Britain and… that kid in the sailor suit are always arguing and pissing each other off and they’re family.” 

Again, Emil sighed, eyes closed, head bowed and looking very exasperated. “It’s hard to explain. You wouldn’t understand.”

Alfred didn’t really know how he could respond to that answer. 

The American turned away, noticing that the room was beginning to fill up. The Baltic States were huddled in their own little corner, no doubt trying to make some nervy pep-talk, and Francis had showed up early for once, still radiating his usual flamboyancy. Most of the Balkans had arrived, as had most of the ex-Warsaw Pact nations, bar Elizabeta and Felix, who more often than not showed up together.

There was another sound in the direction of the Icelandic teenager. “I really hate this room sometimes. It’s just too stuffy and claustrophobic.” He flashed a second glare at Feliciano, who was still asleep. “I don’t like who I have to sit beside either. They have a habit of talking over me like I’m not here.”

“Gets you down, huh?” Suddenly, Alfred felt somewhat guilty over all the times he’d failed to notice if Matthew was present at a meeting. Or a party. Or any social gathering in general.

There was another silence between them when Manon entered, for once not wearing her usual green bow, having changed to a black one, bringing her brothers with her. The sight of the towering Dutch avatar never failed to impress Alfred in the same was that his gravity-defying hair never failed to amuse him. “God, Holland’s really tall,” he said, stating the obvious out loud, “Have you ever wondered how tall he is?” _Way to ask a weird question, America, of course he doesn’t think about stuff like that…_

“He’s six-foot-two.” 

Alfred turned his head sharply to face Emil. “How the hell did you know that?!”

The Icelander shrugged. “It’s a skill I learnt from my brother. He taught himself how to measure distances by sight, and I picked it up myself.”

Still gawping, the American turned to stare across the table at the mysterious and perpetually impassive Norwegian, who despite being engaged in a seemingly casual conversation, still manage to hold the same expression and posture Alfred could only imagine normal people would reserve for church. There were far too many things about the man that freaked the American out. Firstly, why did that curl behind his ear _float?_ He knew that a few nations had small locks of hair representing a landmark or feature of their country, screw it, he was one of them, but why did the Norwegian’s curl just hover there for no reason? Secondly, why does he wear a hairclip? Also, why is he so God-damn emotionless? 

It was about this point that Lukas, finally realising that he was being stared at, sharply twitched to face him. Another unnerving factor about him was that, like his brother, Lukas had very unusual eyes that were such a deep shade of blue they were almost purple, and so dark in colour you could only make out his pupils when you were standing very close to him. From a distance, his glare was slightly terrifying; two dark indigo voids blazing out of his ever calm face, and one always had the feeling that he was mercilessly patronizing you inside his mind. 

Alfred shuddered and turned away, cheeks flushed from being caught gawping, and even then he was certain he could feel Lukas’s disapproving stare bearing into him. Emil turned his head slightly to one side, quietly observing the American, and never once taking those strange, owlish eyes off him.

“What are you looking at me like that for?” There was no hiding the mild suspicion in his voice.

Emil snapped back to reality, eyes widening brightly for a brief second as he jolted back violently, before he regained his precocious composure. “Oh, it’s nothing.” He secretly hoped that the American was as gullible as the characters in his TV shows.

A second passed, and for a fleeting moment Emil wondered if Alfred had understood what he said. _Is my accent really_ that _bad?_

Eventually, the American’s face melted into its usual cheery self. “Oh, ok. It’s just you looked really weird there and I was wondering if something had happened.” His eyes flicked open and danced around the room, then checked his watch. “Jesus, we should be starting soon. D’you think everyone’s here?”

Emil had no time to answer before Alfred mumbled something incoherent, stood up abruptly, dusted off the seat he had been sitting on and turned back, winking, “Nice talking to you.” He then bounced back to his own seat at the head of the table, flopping into his chair, making a movement that suggested he wanted to put his feet on the table but was scared of getting scolded. Instead, he leaned forwards, loudly and melodramatically cleared his throat in an attempt to catch the attention of the other twenty-seven members in the room.

The room floated into motion as people ended their conversations and took their designated positions around the oval table. Chairs squeaked softly, people shuffled past each other, squeezing between the chairs and wall, mumbling apologies when they had to.

Alfred waited impatiently until the last nation was seated before he stood up; reaching for the sheet he’d written a pre-prepared introductory speech on. He never trusted himself to be able to make up a formal speech on the spot, and so would always have one ready in advance.

He faced his audience, glancing down to the opening lines of his speech, while waiting for everyone to be quiet so he could start talking. A hush gradually began to fall across the room. Then, he opened his mouth to speak.

A gunshot roared from behind. 

Before he could even process the sound, the American jarred forward, slamming into the table, and blood oozing from the hole at the base of his skull.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two posts in one day! I'm on a roll, Shalala~  
> So here we have it! The first chapter of my big fanfiction! Who would have ever imagined America and Iceland of all characters sitting down for a chat? I certainly didn't, and I'm the author... then again, I hadn't many ideas for this, so I just derped my way through it, neatening it up at the end. I found both characters very easy to write for, so that helped loads I guess!  
> The original idea for this was an unusual one: I went through a phase of reading lots of Snapped!Country fanfictions, and began to imagine a scenario in which a large group was attacked. This group was whittled down from the UN to NATO, for the simple reason that a smaller group would be easier to work with. Also, the original had no plot other than just being an excuse for lots of pointless fluff, but following a conversation with a good friend of mine, we managed to develop it. Never fear; there'll be fluff galore later on with a bit of luck!  
> In case you didn't cotton on...  
> Manon- Belgium  
> Irakles- Greece (I used the Greek spelling, because I thought it looked nicer)  
> "That kid in the sailor suit"- Sealand (I don't like SuFin and the related family unit, so yes, in my headcannon, Sealand lives with England, annoying the living daylights out of him)
> 
> Notes time!  
> -Iceland has pink eyes in the fanfiction. I know he had blue eyes in the anime, yet pink in the manga, and people prefer blue... Personally, I think the pink looks nicer (and my Iceland shimeji is pink-eyed, so I'm used to it I guess!) I also say he has long black eyelashes; this comes from a demotivational poster I saw on dA that pointed this out.  
> -The fanfic also states that Holland is 6''2 in height. This is debateable, since Hidekaz has only released canon heights for the Axis and Allied countries, so any other character is a blind guess (I also like to peg Sweden as 6''2. Not sure if this is canon or not)  
> -Like in the show, countries address and refer to each other using country names. The only time they use human names is as an affectionate/comforting gesture, or if they're out and about in public.  
> -Like Japan and Liechtenstein, Norway's eyes have no pupils in the canon. Obviously, they'd have to in reality, hence the detailed descriptions.  
> -Is my accent really that bad? I read somewhere that Hidekaz made a small comment that Iceland is really self conscious of his accent.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after the attack, one survivor awakens alone in a strange place.

_Chapter Two_

Only seven of them were found alive.

To those who set foot in the room once the cries and gunshot had stopped, it was miraculous even one person had survived. In the chaos nobody on the other side of the door had thought to measure the time between the first and last shots. It could have been five minutes, or ten, or twenty. Whatever the time, it was long enough to silence twenty-eight people.

And kill twenty-one.

Keeping the attack discreet as possible was much easier than one imagined. Since none of the victims were mortal, they were not given the same treatment as normal humans, so therefore nobody was taken to a standard hospital in a standard ambulance, and instead were quietly but quickly transported to a small location designated for the treatment of sick or injured nations who happened to be in Belgium.

Set up after the First World War, the Order of the Poppy is an international organisation with bases across the world in every capital city. Most bases are simply accommodation for nurses, who either live there full time or have been stationed there for a temporary time period, however on some rare occasions they can be used as makeshift hospitals in cases of emergency.

This appeared to be one of those occasions.

The halls of the base were silent as the stream of vans carrying survivors and fatalities alike drew up outside. With almost military-style precision the nurses began to organise the casualties into the available rooms. 

“Keep the live ones separate, and keep the dead together until they regenerate,” were the orders from the head nurse. “When they’re well enough to be discharged, we should be able to move the regenerating ones into their own rooms.” 

“How long until they all recover?” a voice asked from somewhere.

“It depends,” the head replied curtly. “It depends.”

*

_The first thing he noticed was tightness in his chest, as if something was wrapped around him. He was aware of a dull ache in his right side and similar, milder sensation in his right shoulder._

_He could see nothing. Sound was muffled, as if someone was pressing a pillow to each ear, and there was the unmistakeable feeling that an oxygen mask was strapped to his face. Like the world around him, his mind felt blank and empty, and the air coming in from the mask felt thick as he breathed._

_Aside from the light throbbing, he could feel nothing else. Was he warm? Cold? Hell, was he even wearing anything other than whatever was around his chest? He tried moving his arm to check, only to discover that he could barely feel it. A wave of acute panic washed through him as he forced his eyes to open._  
  
Matthias awoke in a dim room with no light other than moonlight filtering through the blinds by his bed; clearly it was night time. _Already? But... the meeting was only this morning!_ Surely he couldn’t have been asleep for that long? 

He rolled his head right, noting that his arm was bandaged from shoulder to elbow. His felt his eyes widen when he noticed an IV line protruding from his forearm. _What’s that doing there?_

He returned to his original position, staring up at the ceiling. Mustering as much strength as he thought possible, he heaved his weight onto his left arm, using it to prop himself up so he could get a look at the rest of his body.

He was wrapped thickly from his breastbone to below his ribcage in bandages. Even in his semi-conscious state, he knew something wasn’t right. _I only got hit there once! Why all these bandages?_

He collapsed back onto the bed, sending a wave of nausea through him, a soft thump resonating through the room. It was then he noticed a soft, slightly erratic beeping sound coming from his left side. _A heart monitor…?_

He took as deep a breath he could, closing his eyes and attempting to relax, casting his mind back to that morning, or meeting. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been unconscious for. 

He had been hit in his right side and upper arm; that much he _could_ remember. He could also remember hiding under the table to avoid being hit again, using his fingers to plug the hole in his side. Had he accidentally made the wound worse?

Cursing into himself in a whisper that sounded alarmingly raspy, he felt a sudden twinge in the area in his side where he’d been shot. His left hand jerked reflexively to the spot, almost yanking the cord connecting the clip on his finger to the heart monitor clean out of its terminal. Obviously, whatever painkillers he’d been given were starting to wear off.

Wincing, he cupped the spot gently, using the warmth from his hand to soothe the area. It wasn’t a particularly painful injury, given his age and history, he’d felt much worse than this. Besides, having already been targeted once, whoever attacked first could come back to finish the job if they got word that someone _wasn’t_ killed the first time round, and Matthias knew by instinct it would be best to stay as alert as possible, which would mean going without pain-killing drugs and possible side-effects.

 _I’d better keep my wits about me,_ he thought grimly, gently massaging the tender area. _Besides, I’ve felt worse. I can totally handle this._

His eyes, having adjusted to the gloom, now roved around, taking in his surroundings. It was a fairly basic room, given the fact that as a nation, he would recover more quickly than normal, thus reducing the need for complex equipment. In fact, the softly bleeping heart monitor and breathing apparatus were the most advance machinery Matthias could see. Everything else would have been considered alarmingly basic by mortal standards. Aside from a small bedside cabinet and chair, the room was practically empty.

 _Nowhere to hide,_ the Dane mused, noting that he had a clear view of the door and layout of the room. Anyone in the room would be in plain sight, unless they were flattened under the bed or stuffed into the small cabinet, which would have been impossible for anyone, unless they were less than four feet tall.

Still, an age-old instinct told Matthias that almost nothing is what it appears. Heck, the reason he was lying in a hospital bed with gunshot wounds was a prime example. He didn’t see who shot him, or anyone else. There was nobody in that room who wasn’t meant to be there.

Or so they thought.

The more he thought about it, the more it confused him, yet the more it intrigued him also, and the more he wanted to find out who, why and how he was attacked. The more he thought about this, the more he wondered who else had survived.

 _Well, Amerika obviously didn’t._ Matthias was no medical expert, but it was pretty obvious that a clear shot to the back of the head would be enough to put any nation in a death-like coma for… ah, he’d forgotten how long. It depended on so many factors he’d lost track ages ago. 

After that first shot, the room descended into chaos. Most people dived beneath the heavy table, a few others bolted for the door in a futile attempt to escape, only to be picked off by their assailant. In the stampede and confusion, some had been left in the open, either too confused or too scared to scramble under the table. He saw some comforting those who had already been hit, only to be hit themselves.

Like Lukas and Emil.

He pushed the memory away. Although Matthias didn’t know if either of them were dead for sure, the last thing he wanted to have on his mind was the image of Lukas cradling the limp, bloody body of his younger brother in his arms, watching both of them slowly slip into unconsciousness.

Unfortunately, the image was one of the only clear recollections he had left of the meeting. As soon as the gun went off, he’d delved beneath the table, not really paying attention to anything other than his own safety, and even then he barely noticed the sting of a bullet as it buried itself in his side. In fact, he only noticed the first shot after he’d been hit a second time, after which he decided to play dead. As bad luck would have it, his position left him facing the other two Nordics, so he closed his eyes. 

It had seemed like hours before the doors were finally forced open. By this point, Matthias was far too light headed for his mind to work properly, and was most likely slowly going into shock due to blood loss. Well, that’s what he had guessed, given that he’d been shot in the morning, and was now awakening at night to find himself hooked up to an oxygen tank, heart monitor and… whatever the heck that IV line was connected to. 

The sight of the long needle protruding from a swollen vein his forearm had alarmed him a little. As a nation, he shouldn’t need something so… human, even in situations like this, since his body would heal itself regardless of what medical treatment was given. It was only what nations called a “flesh wound”, and had happened many a time before. Granted, sometimes they could be severe enough to keep them comatose for some length of time, as in Alfred’s case. Sometimes human care would be used then, but usually only for comfort reasons, and idea of a large needle stuck in his arm didn’t sound like a comfortable situation to Matthias. Especially since it wasn’t administrating any painkillers.

 _It’s for the best,_ he gingerly reminded himself, keeping his hand over the first spot where he’d been hit, even though the pain had now radiated to pretty much his whole right side and arm.

The sound of footsteps echoing in the hall outside the door suddenly became just noticeable, growing ever louder with each sharp tap. A lifetime of instinct rushed through Matthias, as the sound came closer. It was probably just a nurse, but he couldn’t be certain. He couldn’t be certain of anything now. 

The footsteps stopped outside his door, the click of the lock and the creak of the handle echoing penetrating the silence. The door barely made a sound as it slowly eased open.  


Matthias kept his eyes trained on the door as someone entered the room. He couldn’t make out the detail of their clothing from where he lay, but he could tell it was definitely a uniform of some sort, and judging by the long skirt it was obviously a woman. She approached the bed, heels leaving a sharp click that appeared to resonate in the stillness of the room.

She stopped short, suddenly taken aback when she saw the nation’s bright eyes staring at her. He had awoken much earlier than they had expected, and she was unsure of whether that was a good or bad thing, especially since he was only bought in that morning, almost unconscious having nearly bled to death. She wasn’t familiar with the healing process of nations. Nobody was.

She stood there, trying to gather her thoughts, all the while being intently studied by the curious eyes of her patient. He was waiting for her to say something, she just knew it. He wanted her to tell him everything, how long he had been there, who else was alive, had the attackers been caught. Of course, she could probably answer some, but not all.

“… Hello.”

Her voice hung in the air for an awkward while.

“…Can you speak?” She had a strong feeling he probably could, after all, there was no damage to his neck which could have affected his vocal cords, but there was that injury to his lung, which obviously affected breathing, and obviously one needs to be able to breathe to speak. 

_Can I speak?_ He hadn’t tried to yet. Well, he’d cussed into himself earlier, but that probably wasn’t what she meant. The wound hadn’t been as painful then, but he was now aching all over his right side, and even breathing was beginning to cause discomfort. If he _could talk_ , then it was going to hurt. 

He opened his mouth to inhale, a sudden tightness in his chest suddenly overcoming him. The air from the mask felt too thick, too stuffy for him to breathe properly. He raised him arm, groping at it, trying to pull it off, causing the monitor to bleep frantically.

Concerned, the nurse briskly stepped forward, easing the mask off the nations face. The air felt thinner, clearer, and so cool and crisp it felt strange, but it was easier to breath. He felt himself relax slowly, gathering his thoughts into what he wanted to say, to ask. _But there’s so much!_ His mind began to swirl with questions, who else was alive, how long had he been here, how long would he be here…? He couldn’t begin to start.

“I can stay a while, if that helps.” There were only seven survivors, and each had their own nurse, for the time being anyway. Besides, she felt obliged to take the time to answer a few of her patients questions.

The Dane felt himself relax slightly. “ _Ja,_ ” he croaked, barely audible even in the silence. “It does.”

The nurse nodded blandly, pulling up the chair beside the bed. She leaned in, showing her willingness to listen. “What is it you want to ask?” 

He stayed quiet for a while. “How long have I been here?” The sound of his own hoarse, weak voice terrified him. He wasn’t supposed to sound like… like _that_!

“Since around half past nine this morning.” She fished a watch from her pocket, holding it to the moonlight to read it. “It is eleven o’clock now. Approximately fourteen hours.”

 _Fourteen hours…_ It was a better answer than he had expected. At least he knew he hadn’t been comatose for days. “How long are you expecting to keep me here?” He just hoped the answer to this question would be as welcome as the last.

“I do not know. It is… _impossible_ for anyone to predict.” She slapped herself internally. Of course it wasn’t impossible… it was just very difficult.

Despite her monotone, he could tell by her eyes and movements she was telling the truth. He smiled a little, giving a drained giggle. “It is impossible, you’re right. I wouldn’t even know.” He sunk back into his pillow, a drowsiness overcoming him. His next words were barely above murmurs. “How many of us are still alive…?”

The nurse paused, as if she were counting those she knew were alive inside her mind. “Seven,” she finally said, albeit unsurely. “And that includes you, sir.”

“You sound… uncertain.” He was going to object at being called “sir”, as he would normally do, but tonight, he just didn’t have the energy.

“There were seven of you alive this morning. I-I don’t know if anyone has died or recovered since.”

The nation gave a single mute nod, eyes sliding shut. He had so much more to ask, he didn’t want to be so tired. Not now.

“There is one last thing.” Matthias focussed in on her face, locking his glazed eyes with hers. “Tell me,” he whispered, his voice had become so feeble, “tell me, _who_ else is alive?” He took a pause to catch his breath, before adding softly, almost nervously, “Did my brothers make it?”

The woman suddenly became tense. She had a bad feeling that he would ask that question. Though it was slight, her reaction made it obvious to him that the news would most likely be unpleasant, though there was something about not knowing that felt worse than finally having closure. 

“Please… just tell me.” His voce had dropped to a scarcely audible whisper and he could barely keep his eyes open. He hated feeling this drained, especially since his mind was so restless. Nevertheless, Matthias could feel himself slowly fading into unconsciousness again, no matter how much he fought the urge.

The last things he heard before he let the blackness engulf him were the soft words of the nurse.

“Only the older one made it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guh, this took so long to write... Well, I've been up to my eyeballs in schoolwork, not to mention that week away in Turkey when I got sod all writing done... ah well, hopefully chapter three won't take as long ^^;
> 
> I did actually have an idea of what I wanted to happen, I knew I wanted a "waking up" chapter, and I wanted to do it from Denmark's POV since he's a favourite character of mine, though I didn't really know how to word anything I guess. Also, I have no clue if I got any of the medical references right (has never even stayed in hospital before, and when I tried to research gunshot wounds I was confronted with walls of medical jargon >.> )
> 
> Out of curiosity, my beta said that "The Order of the Poppy" may be a fanon organisation, as they'd heard it used before by other writers. I thought I was being totally original when I came up with it, but it now seems like I'd have to credit the original artist who coined it!


End file.
